


The Virgin's Tale

by owlbsurfinbird



Series: The Cambridge Tales [7]
Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Being a young man, Church teachings on homosexuality, College, Gen, Humor, Lewis Summer Challenge 2014, Longing, summer job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-11 00:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2045223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/owlbsurfinbird/pseuds/owlbsurfinbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James wonders if he'll ever experience passion...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Virgin's Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the_small_hobbit for suggestions, Brit-pick and beta-read!

**Twice in One Day**

**Cambridge, 1997**

**“Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language.”― Henry James**

James held his tour sign behind his back and attempted to give a sincere smile to the twelve people in front of him. Midweek and it was getting harder each day to reign in his sarcasm and keep to the script. 

He tried not to stare at the tall, athletic man, with coffee-colored skin and a gentle smile that grew wide as he looked at James with languid chocolate eyes. There was interest in the man's eyes, perhaps desire, and James struggled to compose himself, startled into gulping oxygen. 

He was above all matters of the flesh, he reminded himself. In several years he would be a priest and he wouldn't be bothered by base needs of touch, taste, sight, smell, sound. 

"I hope we might linger at King's College Chapel," the man purred, his voice dark and full-toned like his skin. 

Goosebumps pricked James' body. He felt hot and cold at once. The spruce pole slipped in his grasp. He grasped its shaft and an image sprang to mind, unwanted.

James took a deep breath, pushed from the dock. Where the devil was the Pimm's punt? Ice. If he could cool down—his gaze wandered over the man's exquisite hands, a complex dance of light and shadow, like Othello, and he imagined ice melting on that hand—

He straightened, realizing that he hadn't said a word and they were already at the first bridge. He jabbered hurriedly, panicked. Perhaps sensing James' discomfort—dear God, he hadn't seen anything, had he?—the dark man's attention turned to the far shore. 

James' nervousness eased by the time they reached King's College Chapel. The man kept his back to James, taking photos.

James peppered his recitation with arcane historical tidbits, earning smiles from the other passengers. He willed the man to turn around. He hungered for another opportunity to meet that gaze now that he was prepared.

The man turned, his fingers crooked against the slight, appreciative smile on his lips, and held James in his gaze.

James blushed furiously and began babbling about the War of the Roses, the exceptional acoustics of the building, and Henry the VIII, who, in fact, had six wives, not eight as the American educational system would have you believe.

The Americans in the punt chuckled ruefully at this, admitting that it was probably true in some parts of the country. 

The dark man smiled politely, and twisted away again with a resigned sigh, settling back into the cushions.

James bit his lip hard, feeling the moment skittering away from his grasp. Not that it mattered, not that it mattered at all. 

But, oh, it would be nice to be touched by those hands.

The rest of the trip passed quickly. The dark man faced stolidly forward. Just as well.

 

**\+ + + + + + + + +**

James settled beneath the coppice tree, opened his backpack and removed a book and his lunch. He knew he should eat lunch with the other punters, but he needed the time to himself. Quiet contemplation. 

He was feeling confused.

He pulled a scrap of paper from the book, Teilhard's _**The Phenomenon of Man**_ :

"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience." 

It was difficult to think of himself as a spiritual being when pushing a punt. He sighed. Sometimes the water was dirty, the pole unwieldly, and the warmth of the sun only reminded him that he needed more sunscreen.

I am a spiritual being, he thought.

Nope. 

I'm a bloke who is staring at a bit of a fish pie in a plastic container that might have gotten too hot to eat. Smells dodgy.

I am staring at the sunlight shimmering on the water and I wish I could dive in. I want to cleanse my mind of wanton thought and desire. The heat's been brutal and it's only midday. It's comfortable here in the shade. The air is still. If I'm not careful I'll fall asleep. 

I stare at the River Cam and contemplate Francis of Assisi, the Canticle of the Sun, the line: Be praised, My Lord, through Sister Water; she is very useful, and humble, and precious, and pure. 

I'm thirsty. I forgot my water bottle. Thinking of a song heard from a radio in a passing car: 'Water of Love.' Can't get it out of my head.

Right. Concentrate.

I am a spiritual being.

I see God in everything around me. 

Right now I do not see God in the man yelling at the dock. I see a man who should be subdued with a good whack over the head. I am sick of rude, stupid people.

I am a spiritual being.

I breathe deep, the air here is rich, fragrant. I do not smell the overwhelming scent of coconut suntan products or the stink of cigarettes. 

I am a spiritual being.

I hear only the whisper of the wind through the trees. 

I do not hear the incessant whine of disgruntled tourists who missed the opportunity to go inside the colleges. Don't they realize this is a place of higher learning? Why can't they all go home and leave me to my meditation? 

I am a spiritual being.

I feel the water move, surging beneath my punt as I thrust forward. I rejoice in the earth and its movement through the universe.

I try not to think of that pretty woman with the huge green eyes who smiled at me this morning as if she knew me. 

She was carrying a load of books, going the opposite direction, and as we passed one another, I nearly offered to carry her books. But she was in a hurry as was I, and as we passed each other, she gave me this smile. A gift. 

And I don't want to think about that smile, that unspoken invitation to follow. I don't want to think about the way the sun lit up her hair, her face, her eyes. Definitely do not want to think of how fetching she looked as she moved, her eyes meeting mine as she turned the corner. 

I am a spiritual being.

I am open to God's creations: infinite diversity, infinite combinations. 

Like the man in my punt just now. 

Would God want us to experience all of it? On a sultry summer day, late in the afternoon, in the middle of nowhere, on a blanket beneath a tree, a bottle of wine—

I am not thinking about that. God forgive me, I am not thinking about that. Not at all. Wouldn't even know where to begin. I don't want to think about how that would feel. I don't want to think of things wrapped in tissue from a hen party. 

I will go to confession on Saturday evening before Mass. 

Oh, no. Not here. Not now. Not that. 

Thank you very much, God, for teaching me to reign in my thoughts. For humbling me in this manner.

I am a spiritual being having a human experience.

Can't do anything about it here except hope that it goes away before I have to get up.

My face is on fire. I know I won't be bothered by these things when I'm older. I'll develop inner discipline. Desire will melt away. 

I wonder if I'll miss it. 

Maybe I can scoop out the contents of my brain and drop it in the river for a good wash up. I can't even blame it on Pimm's. Haven't had any. 

I don't normally have these thoughts. These urges. It must be the warmth, the smell of flowers. The young women in those floaty summer dresses that look soft and sheer when the sunlight is behind them. Men. Tanned and strong and smiling. 

God forgive me.

I'll begin a Novena. 

For a spiritual being, I am enjoying summer too much. 

I am strong in my resolve to be a servant of God, though. 

I know I shouldn't feel the pull of earthly desire, but sometimes, when it's warm and lazy like this, I think of loving one person so much that time would stand still for us and it would always be this instant, this summer moment. 

I wonder if I'll experience passion before I have to forego it.

Right. Contemplation. 

Teilhard wrote: We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience. 

I am a spiritual being. 

Oh I wish I had more human experience.


End file.
